


Forget-me-nots on my Skin (Forevermore)

by alphardhy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphardhy/pseuds/alphardhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate!AU in which you see the world in black and white until your soulmate comes into your life, a burst of colour among the dull crowds. And once you touch your soulmate, the whole world comes alive.</p><p>Killian Jones is an English tattoo artist who moves to New York after his brother's death. Emma Swan is helping Mary Margaret with her flower shop in The Big City. (She has never been a flower person, but she needs to pay the rent.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget-me-nots on my Skin (Forevermore)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for my Secret Santa, youseetherealme.tumblr.com!

Some said England was blue, some said it was golden. For Killian, England was grey, safe and  _home_. But when the light in Liam's eyes faded, the rooms felt too cold, so he left for the unknown with some clothes in his suitcase and a one-way ticket for New York. He would have followed Liam till the ends of the earth, he had promised as a lad, but suddenly his brother was gone, and he had been left with nothing but a broken promise and haunting memories hidden in the walls and the streets that had seen them grow. He had felt the urge to leave. He had felt the urge to  _escape_.

Starting his life all over again had been the easiest part – he had soon managed to rent a small flat at a reasonable price (and thank God for that, because the mattress of the crappy motel room he had been staying at was so hard that he had started to consider sleeping on the floor), and he had even got back to work. He had come across a tattoo studio seeking an experienced tattoo artist, and as soon as he had showed his portfolio, the owner (a man in his late 30s named Robin) had hired him. Robin, lucky him, could take care of full-colour tattoos, so he would help another guy named Will with black and grey designs.

Getting used to living that new life without Liam, though, had been hell – the loss still surreal, the wound still too fresh. So during his first month in that city he knew nothing of, he had worn his brother’s leather jacket, both as a reminder and as an armour.

 _Giving up is bad form_ , Liam had told him once. He had to keep going.

\- / -

Emma often had great ideas. Like that time she had ordered a bunch of oversized sweaters for winter – they had cost her an arm and a leg, but they were so comfy and  _warm_ , so  _yes, it had been a great idea_. Or like that other time she had wrapped herself up like a burrito, turned her phone off and spent the whole day in bed watching Netflix. Agreeing on helping Mary Margaret with her flower shop, though, had been the worst idea she had ever had. She had never been a flower person. Hell, she could not even see colours, just shades of grey. How was she actually supposed to help? But she had to pay the rent, and her friend was right – it would help her to take her mind off the Neal debacle.

They had known since the very beginning that they were not meant to be, that they were not soulmates, but they had thought that maybe they could still be perfectly happy anyway. Time had proved them wrong. (Neal had proved her wrong, the jerk.) She had wondered, then, if she would ever be enough, if she would ever find the kind of love Mary Margaret and David had. (She remembers listening to her friend talk about colours when they were 17 and she had just kissed David for the first time. She had told her that yellow was warm and bright, just like sun. Red was intense, red was love and anger. Blue was calm, like a cloudless sky, like the ocean Emma dreamed of as a child.  _It is beautiful, Emma_ , Mary Margaret had said.

Deep down, Emma still wanted to see it all.)

\- / -

The first time it happens, he is all alone in the studio, looking absent-mindedly out of the shop window – he has only been working there for a month, but Robin already trusts him enough to let him close.

It is blinding, beautiful, and brief. So brief that he thinks he has just imagined things. He has heard and read about colours, of course he has, but not even a million words could have prepared him for  _this_. It leaves him speechless and warms his heart the same way a ray of sunshine warms one’s cheeks on a summer day.

He leaves the studio in haste, hoping to catch a glimpse of that vibrant ponytail again, but he sees nothing. Just dull streets deprived of colours. She is nowhere to be found and his heart sinks. He desperately wants to look for her, he needs to do it, but he cannot (Robin would kill him), and  _bloody hell_ , what if they never cross paths again.

Later that night, he dreams of her, bare back and golden hair in a sea of nothing.

\- / -

Emma lets her eyes drift shut and tries to steal some minutes of sleep – there are still three stops left after all.

But she tries in vain, because a few moments later the doors are opening again and a woman steps on Emma’s foot on her hunt for a seat. She reluctantly blinks sleep away then (her eyelids a bit heavy, her neck stiff, and a swear word on her lips), and that is when she sees  _him_ for the first time, getting off the train.

His jacket is black and his jeans are grey, but she is sure it is him because of his eyes. Colour. There is colour in his eyes and her stomach flips as the realization sinks in.

(She is suddenly reminded of a calm sea before a storm, and she wonders if that is how blue or green look like.)

He stands out among the crowd, among the whites, greys and blacks she has always known, and it makes her feel excited and scared all at once. She wants to ask, needs to connect, but her fears tell her not to, so instead she stays in her seat and stares as the train starts moving again.

She regrets it for days.

\- / -

He is late. He has never been late. He does not like to be late. So he gets dressed at the speed of light, hails a cab and hopes for the best. He could have ridden his bike to work, but he is not sure he remembers the way to the studio (he is used to taking the subway now), and even though Will sometimes tells him he is a  _bloody GPS, mate_ , he decides to play it safe.

The cab stops at a red light at one point, and his breath catches, because she is there, right in front of him again – bright hair (brighter than the sun itself), a new colour on her cheeks (he does not know the colour name, not yet), and God is she beautiful (much more than colours themselves). She crosses the street and gets into what seems to be a flower shop.

He is about to pay the driver and just get out of the car, consequences be damned, when the traffic light turns green and he gets a message from Robin asking where he is and reminding him that his client will be in the studio in five minutes. He curses internally, writes down the address and makes a mental note to go to the flower shop on his day off just for the mere chance to see her. He needs something – a name, a number,  _something_.

He is late to work anyway.

Great.

\- / -

His hair is a mess now and he has been pacing back and forth for about half an hour. He does not know what he is doing. It is not like he can go into the shop and ask about her. 'Excuse me, do you know anything about that woman with long hair and beautiful cheeks that came here yesterday at 10.05 AM?' No, he definitely cannot ask that.

Plus, what on earth would he tell her if he happened to meet her? He is quite good with words, he has always been told, but  _bloody hell_ , he has not thought this through enough. He cannot do this. He will come back when he has had two more coffees and his mind actually works. (Liam would laugh at him if he could see him right now, he thinks.)

He turns the corner and –

– and suddenly there are pots and flowers on the sidewalk, and soil on his shoes, and soil on  _the shoes of someone he does not know and did you say something about having two more coffees? More like four or five, because – for God’s sake, manners, Killian. You really need to apologise to this person. This person whose eyes are full of life, full of colour and light_ , he thinks as he looks up, and it finally clicks with him.

It is her. His soulmate, with her bright ponytail.

She is staring right at him, the hint of a smile on her lips, and are those tiny tiny freckles across her nose?

He is at a loss for words.

\- / -

Emma feels like an idiot.

Her mind has been abuzz with thoughts of him for weeks even though she will deny it in front of Mary Margaret (thoughts of soulmates, first meetings scenarios and a hundred questions she wanted to ask) and now that he is there, she does not even remember how to say hi. (She is quite sure she will end up saying something ridiculous if she opens her mouth.)

He lets out a shaky laugh, scratching behind his ear (he has been doing it for a little while, and her heart squeezes sweetly in her chest, because the man is adorable, damn it), and when their hands meet almost thoughtlessly on a nervous handshake, no words exchanged yet except for a whispered  _oh my god_  she has not been able to hold back, she feels like she is coming  _alive_  – like she is seeing the world for the first time.

And maybe she is.

It happens fast. So fast that it leaves her breathless and dizzy, and she is sure she can even feel her own heart beating loudly in her ears. She has to blink several times to take it all in, to take all the colours in. The forget-me-nots that she was carrying (now all over the sidewalk) are almost the same colour as his eyes, and so is the sky, and even the most mundane objects look stunning to her right now. Her whole world looks stunning, and it is all because of him, this man who is still holding her hand, smiling at her like she hung the moon and stars.

"So," they blurt out at the same time to break the ice after seconds of looking in wonder at each other and the colours surrounding them, and Emma cannot help but giggling ( _giggling_ , Jesus).

" _So_. I’m Emma," she finally breathes out.

"Killian," he replies with a slight bow of his head, the smile still on his lips, and then he gently releases her hand. "I'm Killian. And your shoes are covered in soil. Which is my fault," and he is back to scratching behind his ear in the same adorable, embarrassed way as before. "Apologies, love. Should I –"

"Oh," she cuts him unwittingly.  _Ooooh the soil,_ right _. Mary Margaret's flowers and all that stuff she was supposed to take care of. Yeah. "_ It's nothing, I’ll just –"

They crouch down at the same time (really, what is it with their synchronization?) to brush the soil off her boots, and when his hand accidentally touches hers, he crinkles his nose at her adorably and says something about making quite the team. She does not swoon,  _not_ _at all._

(Apparently Mary Margaret does not agree with that, and so she tells her when Emma excuses herself for a moment and goes into the flower shop to leave the pots and  _breathe_  because it is all too much, he is too much, and damn it, she cannot stop smiling like an idiot.

Apparently Mary Margaret thinks Emma looks 'adorable making eyes at him'. Apparently Mary Margaret has been looking out of the window the whole time. Apparently Emma's cheeks  _can_  grow warmer.

But Emma cannot be mad, especially when her friend is telling her to take her day off for reasons.

She does not know what she did to deserve her.)

When she leaves the shop, he greets her with a whispered  _hello, love_ , his dimples flashing in his cheeks.

-/-

It's been eight months since their hands first touched and she knows.

She knows that he likes his coffee strong and his words fancy; knows that he likes her freckles and the way she shivers when his fingers count them; knows that he likes his name on her lips as much as she likes hers on his.

She knows that he often misses the sea and the sound of the waves; knows that he misses his dear brother and his voice when he gets home; knows that he does not want to miss her, and with every kiss she promises that she will not fade away.

She knows that he knows her better than most, better than anyone else; knows that he loves her, with all his heart and soul. She knows that she loves him, and she is not afraid of the feeling, not anymore. The first time she tells him, though, she does not use those three words. Instead, she tells him she wants his art on her skin forevermore. (She gets a little forget-me-not tattooed on her wrist after she finds those flowers on the pages of his sketchbook, next to some portraits of herself filled with colour and  _love_.)


End file.
